Whatever we happened to have in our pockets
by Elerrina Amanya
Summary: A selection of drabbles, multi-drabbles and other one-shots, mostly originally written for the pre-At World's End drabble-prompt activity at the livejournal community potc dogwatch.
1. Mother tongue

A/N: Prompt _Sea Shanties_. Posted in original form 5/6/07.

* * *

The room is dark, the glory of the Cornish sunset excluded by the heavy curtains that shield the windows. Only a single shaft of light that inveigles its way past the lintel illuminates one narrow strip of the room, including Mama as she sits on the foot of the bed, so pretty in her evening gown. Elizabeth is _not_ tired, _not_ bored of the drawing room and most certainly _not_ happy at having been unceremoniously ejected from said room and banished to bed…but her pillows are downy, her quilts warm and heavy, her mother's voice soft in the gloom, and it is impossible to remain angry for long when luxuriating in such comfort.

Mama sings of a shepherd bringing his flock to pasture, her tone low and reverent, and Elizabeth's mind wanders back out to the park where her uncle's sheep graze, stupid docile creatures that they are, with the lambs that run even faster than she.

For a moment Mama pauses, but when Elizabeth stirs she sings again, this time in Italian. Although she cannot understand all the words, they are warm and affectionate and Elizabeth's imagination carries her to distant, unseen lands of strange hot sunlight and hillsides covered in fruit groves, with white houses basking in the heat like Persian cats before English fireplaces.

Now Mama sings of the sea and Elizabeth has no need to use her imagination, for if she is still, the sound of the waves on the cliffs beneath the house comes up to her ears. Mama's voice is wistful now and sad, filled with regret and other things that Elizabeth does not understand, will only understand when many years are passed and many miles travelled. She frowns, therefore, because everything ought to be happy around her. But before she can voice a drowsy demand that Mama choose a different song, the air changes.

Mama's voice grows stronger, lilting curiously and shaping words Elizabeth has not heard before but which, accompanied by the tune that makes her want to dance, she enjoys.

"…and really bad eggs, drink up me hearties, yo ho!"

As Mama sings the strange wild words, sounding most unlike herself, Elizabeth, caught between sleep and wakefulness, suddenly envisions turquoise skies and tall sails and a dark-faced man with a swagger and a smile that is golden…

Mama ceases singing abruptly and passes a hand over her face. Something in her expression keeps Elizabeth silent and makes her close her eyes. "It is not the life for me," Mama murmurs after a moment, smoothing Elizabeth's hair from her brow. "Nor should it be for you, my little lady. We should be very thankful, Elibet." But she does not sound thankful, only weary, and there is no enthusiasm in her tone when she rises and says softly, "And now I will return to a room full of guests—what a successful evening, to be sure!" She bends and kisses Elizabeth lightly. "Goodnight, dearest."

As she leaves, Mama is singing again, her voice bitter but her face filled with yearning. "Yo ho, yo ho, a pirate's life for me!" She laughs, oddly breathlessly, and the door closes.

Elizabeth dreams, once more, of her pirate.


	2. Daydreaming

A/N: Prompt _A place in the world. _Originally posted 13/7/07.

* * *

_Captain Norrington proposes on a summer's evening in a garden full of roses. _

Is there birdsong? Perhaps, but it is not obtrusive.

_He wears full dress uniform—_but has neglected his wig, for she prefers his own dark hair _—while she is dressed in finest silk with Mama's pearls at her throat and in her ears. _She is taller and old enough to pin up her hair—but she does not wear a hat.

_"Elizabeth," he says, voice softer than its wont, "I can no longer hide from you how deeply, how passionately I love you." He catches hold of her hand and…kisses it feverishly_. Yes, feverishly.

_"Your courage, your intelligence, your wit, your beauty; all of them I admire most fervently. Will you promise to grant me the honour, the privilege, the joy of becoming your husband?"_

_She accepts with appropriately elegant words, blushing so becomingly that he cannot help but take her in his arms and…_

Perhaps not. It is difficult to imagine Captain Norrington doing anything that deviates from the strictest codes of propriety, which is a pity.

But they will live in a fine house and Father will give her a generous dowry and stop worrying about her future and her place in the world, and perhaps Captain Norrington will take her on some of his voyages—perhaps they shall even travel together on the new sloop. Oh, _yes_.

Captain Norrington proposes on the deck of the _Interceptor_, as they race full-rigged into a red dawn…


	3. The one less travelled by

A/N: Prompt_ Off the edge of the map_, Originally posted 25/1/08. Set on the Isla de Muerta.

If the site allowed for longer chapter titles, I'd have been tempted to steal from Lois McMaster Bujold and call this one _The only thing you cannot trade for your heart's desire is your heart, _but since it doesn't, I'm stealing from Robert Frost instead =)

* * *

She passed the last borders of civilisation long ago.

All the books of advice ever written for gently-born young ladies had been entirely unable to offer her any useful counsel on the subject of a proper response to kidnapping and imminent death; the rules that had loomed so large in the drawing-rooms of Port Royal were of little use in determining how to cope with obnoxious pirates and effect one's rescue from desert islands.

She had left the neat paths of social scruples on the high wall of the fort and stepped into a vague wilderness of disasters and desires. And now she pays the price: unable to give logical account for the pounding of her heart as he approaches, with no explanation for the ache that fills her as they face each other, almost touching but so distant, separated by her promise—the words she has spoken and cannot speak. The pre-ordained course is far away now, the ground crumbling beneath her feet.

These are uncharted waters.


	4. Lessons

A/N: Prompt _Learning_. Originally posted 18/5/07

* * *

"No," he says, eyes fixed on her fingers, a dark curl clinging sweat-damp to his brow as he shakes his head, laying down his sword and moving behind her. She stands motionless, every untouched inch of skin achingly conscious of the slim, strong body so close to hers, of the movement of calloused hands so confidently adjusting the position of her own, of the scent of him.

"—like this." His breath is warm on her cheek; she inhales sharply, revelling in the sudden answering tension in him. They stand so for a swift eternity, blood pounding in her ears like waves on a distant, deserted shore.

She can feel the intensity of his gaze, now shifted to her face, and remembers to lower her sword before turning in his arms. His eyes seem almost black when she meets them, burning with dark flame that flares as she rests her palm on his chest and lets the hand that held the blade wander upwards to tangle in his hair.

His breath grows ragged and he murmurs hoarsely as he pulls her hard against him.

"I think our lesson is over, Miss Swann."

She smiles against his mouth.

It is not.


	5. No Conformist

A/N: Prompt _Uniform_. Posted in original form 5/6/07. The first actual drabble, I think =)

* * *

Her cousin laughs, clad now in the restrictive elegance of a borrowed gown, the salt washed from freshly curled hair; borrowed midshipman's shirt and breeches carefully concealed from the eyes of maids who would dispose of them. She seems, once again, a perfect exemplum of a nobly born lady. Dresses, Elizabeth thinks suddenly, with full, rustling skirts, subtle hues and laced bodices, are as much a uniform as that which Norrington wears with such pride. While the Commodore may take pleasure in the identity the Naval coat gives him, however, Elizabeth feels only disdain for the role defined for her.


	6. Whatever love is

A/N: Prompt _Deception and Lies. _Posted in original form 4/2/08. A dodecadrabble =) One way of explaining a certain absence from the sequels; title borrowed from HRH the Prince of Wales.

Silly errors now fixed!

* * *

She had planned to stop visiting Jack before it began to show; what she ought to have foreseen was that Jack—manipulator, twister and complete downfall of so many previous plans—would send this one, also, to its doom. What she should have realised was that Jack held would prove as damnably irresistible as Jack unattainable.

It was almost the changing of the watch, but she continue to sprawl diagonally across the great bed in the captain's quarters that was one of the hitherto unappreciated—by Ana-Maria, at least—treasures of the _Pearl_. Jack, curled neatly at her side, pressed his lips idly against her stomach, then ran his fingers teasingly across it. Even before she could respond, however, they stopped abruptly; after a few seconds' silent hesitation his hand moved again, this time in a distinctly exploratory fashion, fingers running firmly from ribs to abdomen and no doubt discovering an unexpected but undeniable contour.

His face lost all expression and after a moment's pause, during which she watched him intently, Jack said only, "Well, this is rather more unanticipated than it should have been, given our activities of the past few months. How long do you think—?"

She shrugged, never taking her eyes from his face, which was thoughtful now.

"Four months, might be."

Kohl-smudged eyes widened slightly, but he made no comment on the length of time she had waited before he found out; the deeper question of whether she, given the choice, would _ever_ have told him, remained unspoken by both.

Propping himself on one elbow, his gaze shifted to her stomach, brown fingers still caressing it almost absently.

"What do you mean to do?"

"What can I do, 'part from grow bigger?" she retorted sharply.

"There are...ways...of avoiding such a development," he offered.

Ana sat up, throwing off his hand. "No! I don' hold with killing, Jack Sparrow!"

One dark eyebrow lifted. "The crew of the _Donna Dolorosa_, among others, might disagree with you there."

She dismissed this remark with the impatience it warranted. "That's different. This baby, he never tried to keep rich men's gold from me, nor hurt me! Would...would you rather I kill him, then?"

Still she watched Jack's face, unaccountably anxious to hear his answer, following the play of emotions across his features: surprise, speculation, nervous tension, fascination.

"No," he said at length. "I really think, all matters considered, reflected upon and taken into account, I would rather you did _not_ get rid of said infant. I've never had a child before-at least," he corrected swiftly, "not one of whose existence I have been made aware. The experience might prove to be...interesting."

_Interesting_, Ana-Maria thought, half-hysterically. _A shipboard birth with no help 'part from a crew of crazy men, me not able to fight or do duties for weeks, a baby keeping every watch awake, a child running loose around the _Pearl_-and he says_ interesting? _Does he not understand what a difference this would make...or will he leave us when it suits him, careless as he is of those other children who could be somewhere? What kind of man _is_ he? And what kind of father would he have made?_

This last thought, she quickly squashed, finding that she could no longer meet Jack's bright, curiously eager eyes.

"Not for you," she said harshly. "Baby isn't yours."

She felt him still, and did not dare to look up, not knowing whether she feared that he would display disappointment—or that he would not.

"Whose, then?" he asked, tonelessly.

Again, Ana shrugged. "Who knows?"

Silence.

At last she risked a glance across at the dark, vivid face so close to her own. It told her absolutely nothing; she could see in that single instant that the chinks she had worked so hard to open in Jack's armour had snapped shut once more, that the man she had managed to glimpse was again carefully concealed behind the persona, that some tenuous thing between them had been hacked apart. And it was only now that—whatever it had been—was gone, that she realised how important it had become to her. No use regretting it; she knew instinctively that, with Jack, the loss was irredeemable.

_Continue as you started, girl!_

"To be perfectly honest with you," Jack was saying airily, "I find it difficult to see what _anyone_ could see in any one of my crew. Cotton's parrot's about the most attractive of the lot...child's not got feathers on, has it?"

She managed a smile, though she would rather have wept at this return of his brittle flippancy.

_Nothin' to cry about; only the baby moods._

"Don't think it will," she returned in kind. "Who would settle for the crew when they could have the captain?"

Jack, who had rolled away from her and was scuffling about on the floor for his breeches, looked sharply over one bare, golden shoulder. "_You_, apparently."

_Damn. Too far._

"Unless," he went on, unintentionally rescuing her from her slip, "Four months; not one of those bloody—that is to say, is it possible that your child was fathered by one of our esteemed colleagues on the other side of the Atlantic?"

"May be."

_Aye, may be!_

"So, since you aren't going to get rid of it, but neither do you seem to be planning on lingering aboard my ship—since I imagine the brat's presence would bother us just as much, whosoever got it, and you so generously informed me that its existence will not prove of any interest to me—what _are _you going to do? Return to your village?"

Jack was babbling now, filling the emptiness with words, and they both knew it; he had done it so often before, but never with her. Not until tonight.

"No. Tortuga, mos' likely. I know it, and there's plenty of women like me there."

"Not that I've met," Jack said quietly, hastily adding, "And how will you keep yourself and the chick?"

"That won't be your concern, Jack," Ana reminded him, but the words came out more tenderly than any self-respecting rebuke should. Defensively, she began in turn to gather her clothes from the bed and floor, stealing a glance at Jack as she did so. His back was toward her, graceful lines somehow stiffened, even the tattoos seeming to mock her.

"As you say," he returned lightly. "We'll put you ashore on the next occasion we manage to give the bloody Commodore the slip. You will take your share of the plunder, of course."

Knotting the laces of her shirt, Ana nodded, then reached out impulsively to touch Jack's arm. He did not respond, simply looked at her fingers resting there, a shade darker than his own. Awkwardly, she withdrew them, the memory of his skin against hers already growing distant.

Quite suddenly she wanted nothing more than to leave the cabin...strange, when for six months she had wanted nothing more than to remain there.

Hand on the door, she hesitated briefly. "I'm sorry, Jack," she murmured, quietly enough that she thought he could not have heard. Perhaps he did, however; a ghost of a smile crossed his face and his hand moved in a deprecating gesture.

"Pirate."


	7. Freedom

A/N: Prompt _Open water_. Originally posted 18/5/07. I wrote this as a post-CotBP AU, but I suppose you could also look at it as post-AWE-or even, if you squint hard enough, as fitting between CotBP and DMC.

Thanks so much for the reviews; it's lovely and encouraging to know people are actually reading this thing =) In response to the anonymous review on the previous chapter: who said anything about _ending_? ;) Although...you may not want to read the part after this...

* * *

The wheel is smooth beneath his fingers, polished by dead men's hands. His heart sings to the rhythm of the ship—to the steady crack and whip of canvas overhead, to the splashing of the wake, to the creaking of the keel; _she is mine, is mine, all mine! _He revels in the sensitive response of the wheel, feeling his unexpected command of the ship. _I am hers_.

They have the whole world before them, open water and a lifetime to discover it. Apart, they are incomplete. Together, they are free.

He feels her presence drawing near, and smiles.

"Elizabeth."


	8. Not all treasure is silver and gold

A/N: Prompt _Buried treasure_, originally posted 27/7/10. Yes, that would be today.

This one is AU to my own canon, but it arrived in my head and I liked it.

* * *

He can remember the first time he kissed her, can still hear the astonished, indignant sound that had escaped her, only to be muffled against his lips. When he closes his eyes he can again see her as she was: an ebony-haired silhouette against the crimson dawn, dark-diamond eyes flashing just before she kissed him in her turn. With a little effort he can feel her in his arms; the warm old-ivory skin smooth over ship-trained muscles, her hair tangled between his fingers like wind-tossed silk. The taste of her mouth, too, seems to linger in his own: oranges, cinnamon, salt.

He wonders how long the memories will hold her vitality, how long it will be before they dim like the light in her eyes.

They bury her at sea.

"It's what she would have wanted, Cap'n," Gibbs says gruffly, offering what awkward comfort he can. Jack nods, as though in acceptance, but it's a bitter lie and he knows it. What she would have wanted is to be alive and free and in command, wheel in her hands, breeze on her face, open water before her. Never once had she expressed a desire to be laid out upon a blood-washed deck, graceful limbs become ungainly in death. She should be vibrant and intensely present, face filled with that expression of fierce triumph he had come to know so well, not still and pale, cool body stitched into a sheet taken from Jack's bed and abandoned in the wine-dark sea.

The world must be somehow distorted, Jack thinks, if something so indefinably beautiful and irreplaceably precious can be gone forever in the instant it takes for the implacable sea to take back one of her own.

Not all treasure is silver and gold, and Jack will not again forget it.


	9. When I am gone away

A/N: Prompt _Thirteen years_, originally posted 24/5/07. Chapter title on this occasion pilfered from Christina Rosetti.

Another post-CotBP AU. Thanks to a (hopefully temporary) problem with my laptop (by which I mean It Cannot Be Used In Any Way) I can't access the most recent versions of any of my stories, but I'll get the rest of these posted eventually =)

* * *

She recognises him instantly, even from this distance. How could she not? There was a time, after all, when his face was as familiar to her as her own, and much more dear…it is older than she remembers, but beautiful still as he laughs; his hair still thick and black, his body still strong and lithe. A child races across the lawn now, nightgown clutched out of the way of rapidly moving bare feet. From the house a woman calls reprimand, but the little girl's escape has been successful: she flings herself on Will and her treble cry carries easily on the still evening air.

"Papa!"

Elizabeth's breath catches, despite herself, and she somehow finds herself clutching a branch, eyes smarting and breath coming in heavy gasps as though she is recovering from a blow. By the time she has calmed her treacherous body, the woman whose voice she had heard has emerged from the tall window, the reason for her delay apparent in her rolling gait and swollen stomach, clearly visible as the slanting light silhouettes her against the wall. Unconsciously, Elizabeth runs her hand over her own flat belly, hard with muscle and scarred by an unexpected thrust of a dirty knife. Will is holding the child on his shoulder, her dusky curls mingling with his own; he is smiling again as he turns to the woman and his face is clear, full of happiness, haunted by no memories of faded ghosts or fallen angels.

"Beth!" the woman calls, reaching again for the child.

Perhaps one memory, then.

She watches until they are gone.


	10. Pathetic Fallacy

A/N: Prompt_ A change in the weather_; originally posted 4/5/07.

Reviews are much more addictive than I had previously realised. Thank you to those who give them =)

* * *

Her wedding day dawned gloriously bright, sea the perfect turquoise calm of an idyllic Caribbean morning, hot sunlight setting cloth-of-gold aglow. All the forenoon, as maids bathed and dressed, laced and perfumed her, she heard footmen carrying tables and china into the garden, and still the day promised warmth and light. It was as the first guests arrived that the wind began, deceptively light to begin with but swiftly strengthening; and only as her maid was fastening the long veil that she exclaimed in distress at the heavy-darkling sky.

Elizabeth is standing in the garden alone when the rain comes.


	11. Clipped Wings

A/N: Okay, so I went away for a week at the beginning of August, with every intention of posting the rest of these as soon as I got back. Clearly life had other ideas =) Here's a double drabble, anyway.

Prompt _Prison_. Posted in original format 13/7/07.

* * *

In a strange way, Elizabeth welcomes the cold stone of the floor beneath her and the cool, immovable iron at her cheek. Not that she enjoys her imprisonment: prisoners' leers and the stench of unwashed bodies—including, she suspects, her own—make her situation anything but pleasant.

Yet after all, she has been a captive all her life, shackled by the weight of silk and expectation. Only in a few snatched moments has she revelled in the illusion of freedom: in the exhilaration of shouting orders upon the deck of a doomed ship, the wild joy of dancing barefoot upon fire-lit sand, the thrill of furiously stolen kisses, the seductive intensity of steel whispering on steel. All else has been a silver cage of stifling propriety, as impervious to the rebellious beating of her wings as these bars are to the angry shaking of her fingers. Now, at least, her incarceration is physical, acknowledged; one that she is not expected to endure with a smiling façade of contentment—one against which she can fight.

For nineteen years her mind and spirit have been chained; now her body joins them in a different kind of prison.

She will escape them all.


	12. By the powers

Prompt:_ Letters of marque_. Originally posted 25/1/08.

* * *

She had thought that she knew where death lay. In swift pistols; in long straight swords, balanced to a hair's breadth; in hot explosions; in the timbers of a dying ship as she was smashed to pieces about one; few knew better than Elizabeth how surely one's life or death could be determined by these. Among all the weapons she had wielded and faced, however, she had never counted a piece of parchment. Yet here it was, a few words written in ink upon paper, promising life just as the warrants had held death. The might of the pen, indeed.


	13. Tastes divine

A/N: Prompt _King of the cannibals_; originally posted 25/1/08.

* * *

Perhaps, Jack reflects, he should have settled for being merely a king. The thought is of course dismissed as soon as it arises; he is Captain Jack Sparrow, after all, and the day has yet to dawn when Captain Jack Sparrow disregards an opportunity to acquire some more legendary, undying glory. Unfortunately, at the present time it seems that while the glory may be undying, Jack will not. This disturbs him somewhat.

Becoming a god—metaphorically speaking—sounded like such a good idea at the time. In retrospect, however, Jack has decided that divinity holds few of the benefits it promises.

_These people don't even obey their own god!_

Jack wonders at this as he meditatively chews on a toenail, then wonders why he wonders. Human nature, savvy?

People tend to get possessive of their gods, to obey only when it bloody suits them, to start putting words in their mouths. And fire in their breeches.

A lesser man might have been content to be a mortal king with, perhaps, some heavy artillery to support his pronouncements; a king whose subjects didn't start getting fancy ideas about deities needing released from earthly cages.

But not Jack. Oh, no, not _Jack_.


	14. one moment

A/N: Prompt _Time and tide_; originally posted 23/5/07. A drabble-and-a-half.

I didn't realise how long it had been since I updated this...but then, a terrible lot has happened since then.

* * *

She tells herself it is justice.

She tells herself she does it for Will.

He looks strangely forlorn, vulnerable, standing there alone on the deck, caressing his _Pearl_ as she thinks he might, in another time and another world—

She tells herself it is better for him to remain with his ship than to watch her destruction from afar; better for the legend to end gloriously—as she will ensure it does.

His mouth is warm and surprised and unexpectedly soft; he tastes of oranges and rum and the Spanish Main…the whole world, if she had time enough to learn it. But the iron in her hand is cold as the depths of Davy Jones' Locker and the kiss is over almost before he responds and she is _not_ sorry.

She tells herself she did not want it.

She tells herself it is not double treachery.

She tells herself lies.


	15. Sisters

Prompt: _A touch of destiny_. Originally posted 24/5/07. Triple drabble. Thanks so much to those of you who have reviewed; I really do appreciate any concrit-or just hearing about lines you think worked =)

* * *

"I don't believe in destiny."

Even to his own ears his defiant words fall hollow, a plea where he intended a dismissal.

"You don' think that you were destined to receive that cursed coin—oh, yes, I know 'bout all that," she says, smiling at his start of surprise.

"You don' believe that Fate, the sister of Destiny, placed you on that ship, doomed it to sink, brought Eliz'beth to rescue you? You don' think you an' she were fated to meet an' love?"

He stares over her shoulder.

"I know only that we _did_ meet, that I _do_ love her; that I will do anything to bring her safety or happiness."

"Anyt'ing?" she queries swiftly, but waits for no answer. "You think you can shape your own future, William Turner?" she asks now, amusement evident in the slow cadences of her voice. "You think you can escape what Fate planned for you?"

"There is no plan," he repeats, but his mouth is dry.

"How many times your life been risked—and spared?" she demands. "From sickness, from battle, from accident in forge—and always, always from the water. You think Destiny not keeping you safe for her own purposes?"

"Those were…fortunate coincidences," he protests valiantly, but there is a cold, sick knot of inevitable dread in his stomach as he at last meets her eyes, wise and dark and old—_how old_? he wonders suddenly, irrelevantly.

"Maybe. Maybe you right, William." She is silent for a moment, all humour draining from her like the unexpected retreat of high tide. Those eyes remain fixed on him and he experiences a swift rush of—fear.

Her voice, when again she speaks, is deeper and softer than before.

"Coincidences of _Fortune_? Do you not know, William, the name of Destiny's second sister?"


	16. By night

Another drabble! Halfway there, now; who knew that updating a pre-written story could take so long...

Prompt:_ tentacles_, originally posted 4/5/07.

* * *

Will has not told her about the _Dutchman_, or Davy Jones, or even his father. The little she knows she learns by night, for only when they lie in darkness deep as the unfathomable depths of the sea does he speak: desperate dream-ravings, she would call them, did she not know that wakeful nightmares prowl the seas. And so she calms him through their off-watches, smoothing sweat-soaked hair, holding him until his talk of men with monsters' faces and monsters' hearts fades.

When _she_ sleeps now, she dreams only of clinging, crushing tentacles, and death.

Death wears her own face.


	17. Admiral or Admirable

Prompt: _One good deed. Orig_inally posted 25/1/08. A Norrington double drabble...apologies for the title; I don't know why I thought it was a good idea =)

* * *

He had been so certain, once; so confident in the judgements he meted out, in his definitions of right and wrong, good and evil. Punishment he understood very well; redemption less so, while forgiveness…forgiveness was something reserved for those occasions when Elizabeth—Miss Swann—looked up into his face and made a laughing apology for some misdemeanour or forgotten appointment.

A lifetime of keeping the rules, that was what he had to his account; a lifetime of doing good in the eyes of men, of keeping to the code of morality and gentlemanly behaviour.

Then that pirate—_not_ the best he's ever seen, but the most engaging—swaggered into his world…and a grey, hitherto uncharted land of middle paths and shadows opened up before him, step following step until at last, he did what he knew to be wickedness and the promise of redemption turned to ashes on his lips. He believes now that a man's life can turn on one deed, and he has been lost for so long; lost until a bright face and sharp words cut the mists about him, the steep road ahead becoming clear once more. What means of atonement is offered, he will take.


	18. Finality

Prompt: _Sealed in blood_. Originally posted 18/5/07.

Written prior to the release of_ At World's End_, in response to one of the trailers. Still in line with canon, although my original intention is not.

* * *

They are going to die. Elizabeth has come close to experiencing violent— and inappropriate— death far more often than can possibly be considered proper for a young lady of good birth and noble pedigree and she has even taken part in more battles than an average lieutenant sees in a lifetime. Until now, however, an awareness of her own mortality has not troubled her greatly; she has killed men and seen her own death in half a hundred pieces of rapidly moving, sharply pointed metal, but conflict—with undead pirates, sea monsters, or drunken sailors—has been an adventure, an exercise in besting her opponents. Only now for the first time does a sense of impending doom choke her lungs and tangle her feet.

The rain lashes down, drumming on the decks, washing copper stains into the sea. She moves almost without thought, arms following the patterns Will taught her so many months ago.

_Will!_

It is, she realises, for Will that she most fears, and the thought surprises her. She bound Jack to his doom, it is true, but Jack was—is—a pirate, and death is an occupational hazard in that profession. Will was a good man, a blacksmith who wanted only to love her and work for her and live with her…she is no longer all he fights for, Elizabeth knows, but she is fully aware that it is only because of her that Will stepped onto the path that brought him here, straining every muscle against death. She can see him now and again as he passes across her line of vision, but she is constantly aware of his presence, curiously comforting in a storm of death.

They come together in one of the odd lulls that fall in the rise and ebb of battle, face one another with swords in hands, water trickling down their cheeks, hair soaked black against their skulls.

Will stares at her, and his eyes frighten her because, for the first time, they are not Will's eyes—gentle and devoted and _good_. There is a fey brilliance in them now that draws her even as it terrifies her, and she will never be able, afterward, to say which if them it is who first steps forward; only that for a moment they embrace, clutching one another with bloodied hands, kissing until breath is gone and beyond. Even the taste of him is different, all else masked by the tang of bitter salt. When at length he pulls away and turns silently from her, raising his sword once more, there are crimson drops smeared across her lips.

The rain takes even that from her.


	19. The Dying of the Light

Prompt: _Time's run out_. Originally posted 23/5/07. AU.

I feel like I should mention that none of this belongs to me, since I haven't done that in a while. Although I will still gladly claim Will Turner, if non-one else wants him. (Hah.) Title of this chapter also stolen, this time from Dylan Thomas.

Also, thank you so much to everyone who has reviewed different parts of this…story? Collection? Whatever. I really appreciate every comment, whether praise or suggestions for improvement! Also, listening to AWE soundtrack now: did anyone ever notice how some parts of _I see dead people in boats_ are not only similar but pretty much identical to parts of the _Gladiator_ soundtrack? Zimmer, you funny. And since this note is now longer than the drabble, I'll shut up!

* * *

She lies on dusty, hard-packed soil; so still beneath their frantically working hands, struggling to save her—or just to keep her. The earth drinks bright blood thirstily; the spreading stain of damp darkness terrifies them. Jack swears as he examines her wounds, knowing he can do nothing but will not stop doing it; neither notice when his cursing turns to tears, frustrated resentful crying that brings no relief. Will is silent, his face not his own. They cease only when hope is long gone and remain, motionless, her blood on their hands, all three growing cold as dawn approaches.


	20. Whatever we lose

Prompt:_ Oaths and promises_. Originally posted 25/1/08.

Once again, it all belongs to the mouse. Except for the chapter title, which on this occasion is the property of e. e. cummings and taken from _Maggie and Milly and Molly and May_:  
_For whatever we lose(like a you or a me)_  
_ it's always ourselves we find in the sea._

* * *

In the place between life and death, Will dreamed. He dreamed of a ship and the angry sea, pacified by his wish; he dreamed of distant stars under other skies; he dreamed of cold fingers and the clinging entanglement of drowned women's hair. His every dream was lit with a green glow, and into them all came Elizabeth—vibrant and fierce and alive with the wind in her face, or slain and grey upon a wooden deck. And over all that happened in his visions, above every strange path he walked, he heard the echoes of two voices, mingling and unravelling.

"_A touch of destiny,"_ Tia Dalma murmured, sometimes low and soft, sometimes great and terrible. _"I'd die for her!"_ his own voice reverberated, though he did not, then, recognise it.

"_I'd die for her!"_

"_I'd _die_ for her!"_

_I'd die for her._

Conscious and—for a certain value of the word—alive, the words remained with Will, as he leaned on the rotting rail of the _Dutchman_. He had spoken them thoughtlessly, but only because no thought was required...since he was twelve years old, he had been willing to sacrifice anything for her. That had never really changed, though at times he had wondered if he was a fool for his fidelity. Had he been given the choice again, he would have answered in the same way—but he had _not_ been asked again. Someone had already heard those impetuous words, and though they had postponed judgement, in the end had returned to collect. The irony was not lost upon him; near two years to the day, it was, since the moment he spoke those words and made himself a pirate with the saying. Two years between the time he finished that near-perfect sword and the time it finished him; two years between the making of the promise and the redeeming of it.

_I died for her._

A steep price indeed, but he had been prepared to pay even more dearly and receive nothing in return, when he mortgaged his life to the fates.

"Depends on the one day."


	21. Half turn to go

Prompt:_ leaving_. Originally posted...okay, it never made it to being posted in the community for which it was originally written, because I only got around to finishing it several years after the event! A triple drabble and two quadruple drabbles, written as...an experiment of sorts, I suppose.

Title taken (again) from Christina Rossetti's_ Remember_.

* * *

"Mr Turner."

Jack's means of escape will not be his; this, then, is the end. The future with Elizabeth, which for those few glorious seconds while she held his gaze had seemed not only possible but certain, retreats into the realm of imagination once more. He steps away from her, distancing himself physically as though he can thus prevent her reputation from being further sullied by association with him and his end.

If he is not to have the life he aches for, then at the least he will meet his death with courage, honour and whatever dignity he is permitted to retain: Elizabeth will not, whatever happens, remember him with shame.

He had known all along the probable outcome of his rescue attempt—no, _rescue_. All the days since Jack's capture and his own pardon had been spent in deliberating how he might best hope to succeed; it was easier, after all, than thoughts of Elizabeth and her betrothed. That he should not try to save Jack never occurred to him. He had known that the dice would almost certainly fall against him, had accepted it, had carried on regardless.

And yet, looking now into Elizabeth's face, full of shock and denial and the stirrings of defiance as she realises what he means to do; allowing himself to admit only in this moment what he has secretly known for years—that Elizabeth loves him; seeing the days they might have had together snatched away like molten gold escaping, all he can think is that the world is so damned _unfair_.

"I will accept the consequences of my actions," he explains softly, his words only for her. He allows none of his anger to reach his voice, hoping that she will accept this as farewell, knowing that she will not.

* * *

"Will?"

Jack's death was their means of escape; nonetheless, this is the end. The future with Elizabeth, which through sword and sea and imprisonment kept driving him forward, guiding his path like some glorious lodestar, now near and now distant, shatters and crumbles to dust.

He steps away from her, crossing the room to stare blindly at the yellow snake, distancing himself physically as though the pain and anger will somehow lessen with each inch between them, as though he can thus allow her imagination to replace him with the man she wishes were there.

He is not to have the life he longed for, the life they promised each other, but at the least he will retain his honour, act towards her out of the love he still feels, so painfully raw, and not out of the bitterness that will no doubt begin to fester if he tries to close over the wound in his soul. Whatever happens, he will give Elizabeth no further reason to remember him with resentment, will not hold her body to a promise her heart cannot keep.

He has known for half his life the certain outcome of his love for her. Every day since he met her he thought of how far above him she was, of how impossibly different were their situations. Yet that he should not love Elizabeth never occurred to him. He had known that he could never hope to claim her as his wife, that he had doomed himself to pain and disappointment and unfulfilled longing, and had continued on regardless.

And yet, thinking now of Elizabeth's face, full of grief and guilt and hopeless longing as she explained what Jack had done; forcing himself to admit what he had not thought possible—that Elizabeth loves another; seeing the dreams that through all that had befallen he had so carefully kept bright, now mocked and irreparably tarnished, all he can think is that he would do exactly the same again.

"Will," she says again softly, hoarsely, approaching him on silent feet. He cannot bear to see the betrayal burning in her eyes and so does not turn but walks instead to the door, suddenly in desperate need of the treacly stillness of the cooler, quiet air outside. Standing by the water, he gazes up at the stars, half-hoping that she will join him there, knowing that she will not.

* * *

"Will!"

Jack's hand gave him the strength to take the impossible means of escape; this is not, after all, the end. The future with Elizabeth, which so recently had been draining away with his blood upon the _Dutchman_'s deck, is like himself alive again, full of love and hope. She runs, refusing to let him go, and he steps forward to catch and hold her to him, once more.

He will not have the life—any of the lives—he had planned. Like himself, too, that future with Elizabeth has been altered drastically by what has befallen them; twisted and re-forged into something new and strange, yet what is truly important remains fixed, unassailable. Their once extravagant, innocent imagining of their future is narrowed, focused upon a single day; yet whatever happens, Elizabeth will not remember these hours together on the island with anything but a fierce untameable joy.

He could not have guessed the outcome of his actions, of the choices of these past months. Elizabeth and Bootstrap and himself—even Jack: he'd been trying to save them all. Davy Jones and Cutler Becket—even Jack: he'd been trying to outwit them all. That he should not follow this mad course toward doom had never occurred to him. He did what he must as each day unfolded, each card turned; and step followed step, leading him inexorably here. But he knows, now, that had he all the foresight in the world, had Calypso spoken plainly and he known from the beginning how this day would end, he would have continued on regardless.

And looking into Elizabeth's face, filled with passion and tenderness, longing and possessive wonder; able to admit—to shout—that, finally, she is his and he is hers; seeing the rekindled dreams of a life spent (by whatever strange means it may be necessary to devise) together; all he can think is that this day, this moment, this _woman_ is unimaginably worth everything it has cost him to stand here.

He lingers a moment longer, imprinting on his mind every detail of sight and scent and sound and taste and touch, holding this memory forever, imperishable. "Keep a weather eye on the horizon," he murmurs, promise inherent in his words as hers had been in her _yes_. Then he turns, striding down the beach, hoping that she will be there when he returns, knowing that she will.


End file.
